The Darkest of Secrets. Kate Hewitt

that wired them both.

      She drew in a breath that sounded only a little ragged and after a second’s pause, turned to him with a cool smile. ‘Of course I am. As I told you before, this is a major discovery.’

      Khalis said nothing, merely observed her. Her gaze was level, her face carefully expressionless. It was a look, he imagined, she cultivated often. A mask to hide the turbulent emotions seething beneath that placid surface. He recognised it because he had a similar technique himself. Except his mask went deeper than Grace’s, soul-deep. He felt nothing while her emotions remained close to the surface, reflected in her eyes, visible in the soft, trembling line of her mouth.

      ‘I didn’t mean the discovery,’ he said, ‘but rather the painting itself. This Leda.’

      ‘I can’t help but feel sorry for her, I suppose.’ She shrugged, one slender shoulder lifting, and Khalis’s gaze was irresistibly drawn to the movement, the shimmery fabric of her dress clinging lovingly to the swell of her breast. She noticed the direction of his gaze and, her eyes narrowed and mouth compressed, pushed past him. ‘You mentioned earlier you were starving. Shall we eat?’

      ‘Of course.’ He moved to the table and pulled out her chair. Grace hesitated, then walked swiftly towards him and sat down. Khalis inhaled the scent of her perfume or perhaps her shampoo; it smelled sweet and clean, like almonds. He gently pushed her chair in and moved to the other side of the table. Nothing Grace had said or done so far had deterred him or dampened his attraction; in fact, he found the enigmatic mix of strength and vulnerability she showed all the more intriguing—and alluring. And as for the emotions she stirred up in him. Khalis pushed these aside. The events of the last week had left him a little raw, that was all. It should come as no surprise that he was feeling a bit stupidly emotional. It would pass … even as his attraction to Grace Turner became stronger.

      Grace laid her napkin in her lap with trembling fingers. She could not believe how unnerved she was. She didn’t know if it was being on this wretched island, seeing those amazing paintings, or the proximity to Khalis Tannous. Probably—and unfortunately—all three.

      She could not deny this man played havoc with her peace of mind by the way he seemed to sense what she was thinking and feeling. The way his gaze lingered made her achingly aware of her own body, created a response in her she didn’t want or like.

      Desire. Need.

      She’d schooled herself not to feel either for so long. How could this one man shatter her defences so quickly and completely? How could she let him? She knew what happened when you let a man close. When you trusted him. Despair. Heartbreak. Betrayal.

      ‘So tell me about yourself, Grace Turner,’ Khalis said, his voice low and lazy. It slid over her like silk, made her want to luxuriate in its soft, seductive promise. He poured her more wine, which Grace knew she should refuse. The few sips she’d taken had already gone to her head—or was that just the effect Khalis was having on her?

      ‘What do you want to know?’ she asked.

      ‘Everything.’ He sat back, smiling, the glass of wine cradled between his long brown fingers. Grace could not keep her gaze from wandering over him. Wavy ink-black hair, left just a little long, and those surprising grey-green eyes, the colour of agate. He lifted his brows, clearly waiting, and, startled from her humiliatingly obvious perusal of his attractions, Grace reached for her wine.

      ‘That’s rather comprehensive. I told you I did my PhD in—’

      ‘I’m not referring to your professional qualifications.’ Grace said nothing. She wanted—had to—keep this professional. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked mildly, and she let out the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

      ‘Cambridge.’

      ‘And you went to Cambridge for your doctorate?’

      ‘Yes, and undergraduate.’

      ‘You must have done one after the other,’ he mused. ‘You can’t be more than thirty.’

      ‘I’m thirty-two,’ Grace told him. ‘And, as a matter of fact, yes, I did do one after the other.’

      ‘You know I went to Cambridge?’ She inclined her head in acknowledgement; she’d read the file Michel had compiled on him on the plane. ‘We almost overlapped. I’m a few years older than you, but it’s possible.’

      ‘An amazing coincidence.’

      ‘You don’t seem particularly amazed.’

      She just shrugged. She had a feeling that if Khalis Tannous had been within fifty miles of her she would have known it. Or maybe she wouldn’t have, because then she’d been dazzled by another Cambridge student—her ex-husband. Dazzled and blinded. She felt a sudden cold steal inside her at the thought that Khalis and Loukas might have been acquaintances, or even friends. What if Loukas found out she was here? Even though this trip was business, Grace knew how her ex-husband thought. He’d be suspicious, and he might deny her access to Katerina. Why had she let Michel bully her into coming?

      ‘Grace?’ She refocused, saw him looking at with obvious concern. ‘You’ve gone deathly white in the space of about six seconds.’

      ‘Sorry.’ She fumbled for an excuse. ‘I’m a bit tired from the flight, and I haven’t eaten since breakfast.’

      ‘Then let me serve you,’ Khalis said and, as if on cue, a young woman came in with a platter of food.

      Grace watched as Khalis ladled couscous, stewed lamb and a cucumber yogurt salad onto her plate. She told herself it was unlikely Khalis knew Loukas; he’d been living in the States, after all. And, even if he did, he’d surely be discreet about his father’s art collection. She was, as usual, being paranoid. Yet she had to be paranoid, on her guard always, because access to her daughter was so limited and so precious … and in her ex-husband’s complete control.

      ‘Bon appétit,’ Khalis said, and Grace forced a smile.

      ‘It looks delicious.’

      ‘Really? Because you’re looking at your plate as if it’s your last meal.’

      Grace pressed two fingers to her forehead; she felt the beginnings of one of her headaches. ‘A delicious last meal, in any case.’ She tried to smile. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just tired, really.’

      ‘Would you prefer to eat in your room?’

      Grace shook her head, not wanting to admit to such weakness. ‘I’m fine,’ she said firmly, as if she could make it so. ‘And this really does look delicious.’ She took a bite of couscous and somehow managed to choke it down. She could feel Khalis’s gaze on her, heavy and speculative. Knowing.